His muscles tense up. I can almost feel his heartbeat accelerate. I swear to god the heat pulsing off him under the covers just went up a couple of degrees.

‘What? How does she know what I look like?’

‘I sent her a photo. Why?’

Now Thomas is thinking, Shit, it’s only been three days and her mother already has a photograph of me? Wow. I’m the man. The MAN. But I need to escape. ESCAPE.

This is the exact reaction I’m hoping for.

Because he needs to think us ending things is a good thing. That it’s his idea. Things get messy when a man’s ego gets hurt.

‘I’d like to.’ His voice comes out a pitch or two higher now. ‘But I have plans this weekend.’

Thomas is fibbing. He doesn’t have plans. I know this because we spoke about perhaps seeing each other on Saturday night or Sunday afternoon via text this morning and his exact words were: ‘I’m all yours this weekend. Wide open.’ That was when I knew I had to end things. That, and he liked three of my Instagram pictures in a row.

But I expect now that he’s told the lie, now that those syllables are hanging in the air, that text is floating back to him. He’s thinking, Shit, shit, shit.

Poor Thomas.

This is why dating is stressful.

This is why I avoid it.

Well, one of the reasons.

I pull away and sit up. The air is cool on my skin. Goosebumps form as I look around for my clothes. They’re lying in a pile on the floor by the bed, right by the condom wrapper. I loop my arms through my bra straps and fasten it behind my back as I scan the titles on his bookshelf. They’re mainly photography books – Henri Cartier-Bresson, Man Ray, Robert Doisneau – and a couple on positivity-slash-manifestation. I pull my white T-shirt over my head and can feel his eyes on me as I stand up, reach for my short black skirt and put it on.

‘Are you leaving?’ he asks. And there’s an edge to his voice but I can’t tell if it’s panic or relief and I’m intentionally not looking at him so I can’t read his expression.

‘Yes,’ I say as I do up my boots. Ziiippp. The sound echoes in the silence between us.

‘Why?’ he asks. Small.

I turn to face him and try to match the sour expression of the man in the ugly, expensive painting. ‘This isn’t going to work,’ I say.

My bag and jacket are lying on the brown leather sofa. I move over to it, pick them up and head for the door. And without even saying goodbye I open it, move out into the hallway and let it bang behind me.

I rush down the three flights of stairs – the same wooden staircase I came up just two hours ago – as quickly as I can. I pull open the security door and head out into the mauve dusk light, go right, past the red and white lights of a tabac and disappear around the corner.